


Days Gone By

by anri



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 08:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16133315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anri/pseuds/anri
Summary: “I think I like Steve,” he murmured. “I really like Steve.” His voice hitched in his throat. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to it just…I got so scared today, about what would happen if I lost him and I just couldn’t imagine it and I just realised what it was and…I’m so sorry, Sarah.”





	Days Gone By

**Author's Note:**

> The word Queer is mentioned twice, just as a warning in case you don't like the word.

Sarah Rogers was stood with her back to him, as she washed the dishes with her fast, almost irritated efficiency. She was a strong woman – a formidable woman, who Bucky had always had an unapologetic appreciation for. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, standing on the stairs up to the apartment, screaming at the boys below to keep it down before she killed them. From that moment on, he’d always been terrified and in awe of her presence.

In that moment, Bucky felt both feelings coursing through him. He’d left Steve in his room – asleep. He was sick again – in pain, specifically. It was his heart. Bucky was scared, at first. But Sarah had told him with an unwavering firmness that it wasn’t serious, and he believed her. Steve had still spent his whole visit trying to reassure him – he could sense that something was off about Bucky. He had assumed it was worry. It wasn’t. Not the same worry that Steve was thinking, at least. Bucky had stayed until Steve fell asleep, and then he had left him.

He stood behind Sarah now, his mind turning. His palms were sweating, and he felt cold. He knew in his stomach that he needed to ask this question, and instinct had told him that this wasn’t something he could ask his own mother.

Before he could say anything, Sarah turned around. She caught sight of him, staring down at him. Her face softened somewhat. “He sleeping?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice sounding strange.

“Was his breathing okay?”

“It’s…a little shallow but he didn’t seem to be distressed.”

She nodded, throwing her dishtowel down on the side. “Like I said before, Bucky – he’s been worse, and he’s lived. You don’t have anything to be worried about.”

“I’m not worried about Steve. I know he’s gunna be fine.”

Sarah smirked at his confident tone, looking at Bucky again. Then she leaned back against the counter, staring him in the face. “Well, you’re worried about something.”

He nodded minutely.

“Anything I can help with?”

He looked at the floor. “What does…what does it mean exactly, to be queer?” he asked quietly. He could see Sarah stiffen from her spot in the kitchen.

“Where did you hear that?” she snapped.

“Someone said it. And I’ve heard it before. But never…”

“Never?”

He looked up. “Never about me.”

Sarah seemed to soften again. “Who called you that?”

“It doesn’t matter who, I just – I don’t actually know what it means. But I know it’s meant to be bad.”

He heard her tut quietly under her breath. “Take a seat, James.” He sucked in a breath, ready to apologise. She noticed that – “You’re not in trouble, calm down. It’s just. A serious question, and it needs a serious answer.”

Bucky hesitantly sat at the table. Sarah sat back against the chair. He noticed her eyes fix on her son’s bedroom door for a moment. “Sometimes the world isn’t right, or fair.”

Bucky frowned, “What does-“

“Because there are things that people say are wrong, that aren’t actually wrong. Before I say anything, I need you to know that there is nothing wrong about this but that isn’t how everyone sees it.”

Bucky looked down at the table, finding himself unable to look at her as she began to explain.

 

\----------

 

Steve had heard that many of the items that had survived from his Past were kept in archives in museums around the world. He had spent more hours than he cared to admit going through things they had there. He was surprised at what remained, and what was lost. He was familiar with the Important – the items which remained on show in the exhibitions, but he had lost interest in those. They were things that everyone had known. He didn’t feel any personal link. But the private things – the cutlery saved from his apartment, surviving scraps of his civilian clothing. He liked the things from his friends, particularly. He felt a strange amount of distance, as he read about where their lives had gone in his absence; but having something he could physically touch made it easier to connect again.

He was in London, there for a mission which had ended rather quickly, leaving Steve with an afternoon off he wasn’t prepared for. Like most moments when he was unsure of what to do with himself, he found himself wandering into a museum.

Steve found that he didn’t actually need to call ahead to announce his presence; rather, just walking in and telling them he was Captain Steve Rogers allowed him access to places not everyone was allowed. This was true of the Imperial War Museum, who immediately invited him into their archives with a very excitable young historian.

“Now, I’m not sure how much you’ve heard about your former teammates,” he began, flickering between facing Steve behind him as he walked and facing the front as led the way between all of the cabinets. “But your colleague, Major Falsworth, he uh, he came back to England after operations with the uh, Howling Commandos were completed. He lived here, having two children here and, _whoops_ ,” the Historian tripped over on the corner of a frame, his legs flying rather comically, and Steve perhaps would have laughed if they weren’t in such a confined space and he feared for the files if he were to properly fall. Steve pulled his arm, keeping him upright. “Thank you,” the historian murmured, staring dazed at Steve for a moment.

“You were saying?” Steve prompted, after an uncomfortable silence.

“Ah, yes. Well. Unfortunately, Major Falsworth died a few years ago, and his children were cleaning out recently and decided to very kindly donate some of his personal correspondence to the museum here.” Steve nodded silently, as the historian stopped to check a certain box.

“We’ve been keeping them here for now, because we find that letters don’t make the best exhibits, but of course if another museum were to be putting on an exhibition we can ship them out.” He looked at Steve out of the corner of his eye as he said that, as if he expected Steve to be the one orchestrating the museum exhibitions in America. The historian pulled a pair of gloves out of his pockets, handing Steve a set as well. After he was gloved up, the box was opened and he pulled out a large scrapbook. “We have a table at the end, where we can put it down and you can have a look properly.”

The book itself was opened as soon as it was sat down on the table. Slightly yellowed letters were carefully laid out on each page. Steve was allowed to pad through the pages. “You’ll find that a lot of these are letters written from other members of the Howling Commandos. We have them organised through time, so we have things dated from the 1950s all the way up until his death in 2003.” Steve nodded, already tuning out the historian’s voice.

Steve felt a thick wave of nostalgia wash over him, as he skimmed through the pages. He recognised some of the handwriting from his team, smiling as he read some of their sarcastic witty remarks. He only got one half of the conversation, but he felt like he could nearly hear them speaking again.

It was towards the back of the scrapbook, where he noticed something. “Excuse me,” he said, indicating to the historian who was stood behind him, on his phone after realising Steve was not going to chat with him at all. “Yes, yes, is there something I can help you with?” he asked eagerly. Before Steve had any time to reply, the historian was already looking down at the letter in question, feeling the need to spurt out as much information as he could. “Ah yes, this is a letter from Captain Dugan I believe, dated from the early 1970s, I believe –“

“Yes, I know,” Steve said, his voice clipped. “I was just wondering, what does this mean, do you think?” He pointed to a little note, scrawled in a more careful hand, clearly added on after the end of the original letter writing.

_Pride, huh? Wow. That’s a big step for England there. I wish Barnes and the Captain had been there to see that._

The historian stopped for a moment, frowning. His lips moved as he read it through again before he made an exaggerated hm noise. “I’m not actually sure, you know,” he said eventually, and Steve couldn’t stop himself from scoffing at that.

The historian pulled his phone out again, clearly ready to google it. Steve fought to not roll his eyes. If he knew that was how it was, he would have looked it up himself.

“Oh,” the historian muttered quietly.

“What is it?” Steve asked.

“Well, I don’t think it makes much sense – it might not even be the right thing actually, you know but – London’s first Pride event – you know, uh, gay pride, and all that – was held in 1972. Perhaps it was a joke or –“

“It wasn’t a joke,” Steve said quietly. The historian looked at him expectantly, and Steve looked back at him, mustering a “thank you” as polite as he could, before going back to stare at the page again. His hands trembled slightly as he traced the lines across the page again, and he smiled. “Do you mind if I take a picture of this? I have someone I want to show this to.”

 

\----------

 

It was evening when Bucky found himself knocking on the Rogers’ door again. It took a moment before Sarah answered it. Her hair was loose and slightly knotted. She looked down at him, pressing her lips tight together. “Bucky,” she said, her voice stiff. “I thought you knew but –“

“I know Steve’s in hospital,” he blurted out. Sarah simply nodded. “I just needed to talk to you.”

Sarah’s grip on the doorframe momentarily before she opened the door to him. “Come in.” She shut the door quickly behind her before turning to him. “Are you hurt?” she asked quickly, checking him over.

“No. Not really, anyway, I uh,” he swallowed. “Remember when we talked about the…gay thing?”

Sarah nodded, watching him carefully. Bucky ran a hand through his hair, feeling faint. “I think I like Steve,” he murmured. “I really like Steve.” His voice hitched in his throat. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to it just…I got so scared today, about what would happen if I lost him and I just couldn’t imagine it and I just realised what it was and…I’m so sorry, Sarah.” Apologies kept bubbling up out of him, and he couldn’t stop himself. Sarah pulled him close to her, holding him tight.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” she whispered. “For the love of God, Bucky, never say you’re sorry for this.” She ran a hand through his hair gently – something he’d seen her to for Steve many times. He felt calmer, for a moment. And then a new wave of terror washed over him again and he was lost, powerless. He trembled in her arms, uncertain of what was meant to happen next. He felt crushed under this realisation, unable to move away or to even think about anything else.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Her calm voice frightened him for a moment, as he came back to reality, remembering where he was. He pulled out of her grasp, daring to look her in the face for only a moment, before looking to the floor. He couldn’t look her in the face and tell her this. She was looking at him with pity, something he’d never seen from her before. She’d been worried, or disappointed, but never pitying. He felt shame, somehow – that he had been the one to bring her to pity. He felt pathetic. “Steve is lucky to have you to care for him.”

He felt himself shake his head as he stared down at her feet. He couldn’t accept that.

“Yes, he is. Don’t tell me what you think you know about my own son,” she snapped.

“Steve…the other boys already make fun of him _so much_. If they found out about this, about how I felt. It would just make things worse for him,” he murmured, unable to raise his voice properly.

“Well I don’t expect you to shout it from the roof, I think you’re smarter than that, Bucky. We live in a time when how you’re feeling is seen as wrong, so I understand why you are frightened. You cannot tell other people about how you feel, and you don’t need to. As long as you and Steve know and-“

“I can’t tell Steve,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I – I,” he stammered a few times, turning the words over in his mind before he finally said it. “It’s wrong. He won’t feel the same.”

Sarah smacked her hand on the table behind her, setting her jaw as she looked over his head – she looked like someone trying very hard not to scream.

“You’re angry,” Bucky said quietly.

“Yes I am,” she replied, her voice tense. “But not at _you_. Never at you – do you understand?” She didn’t continue until he nodded. “I am so…angry that you have been made to believe this is something _Wrong_. Because it isn’t true in the slightest. I have seen how you care for Steve and your patience with him is more than his own family has allowed him,” she paused then, pressing her lips together very tightly. It was then that Bucky realised Sarah Rogers was trying very hard not to cry herself. “There is nothing wrong with how you love him. You have allowed more happiness into his life than I ever believed there was going to be for him. You have changed his life so much for the better and if that is wrong…” she trailed off, unable to finish her thought. “Steve, he feels the same way. I can guarantee you. Being called wrong, when have you _ever_ seen that bother him?”

Bucky smiled to himself, thinking about it.

“Steve is stubborn, for better or for worse. And he wants you to be there for him, laws be damned. Even if – and this is a very big If – he didn’t feel the same as you, he would still want you there. He wants things to go his way, and he will make it go his way whether you like it or not.” She smiled to herself, looking down at her shoes for a moment. “You’re stuck with him.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Good, because I don’t think you have a choice in this.”

Bucky felt able to relax, just a little bit, then. He was still entirely overwhelmed with his own terror at how he felt, but he felt like he had an ally. Sarah had shared some of that fear with him and had patiently held his hand as the wave washed over him.

“Things are going to change, you know,” she said, her voice soft. “Things won’t remain this way, they are going to get better. I have to believe that – Steve’s father died believing in America. I have to believe it can change for the better as well.” She stared out of the window, and Bucky felt that she was trying to reassure herself in that moment, more than anything else.

 

\----------

 

Steve lounged back in his chair, swigging from his water bottle, regretting his decision to be here. He regretted his inability to say no to people who weren’t being outwardly impolite. He’d asked him so nicely – if a little pushily – and he hadn’t found any real reason to say no other than the fact that he just didn’t really want to. But he felt bad. These historians had spent years – teaching classes, exchanging theories, researched every aspect of his early life, written whole _books_ about him - and he felt like he owed them answers. They’d spent so long creating these convoluted theories, making them vastly more complex the more time went by, and he felt like he needed to bring them back to earth a little bit. He felt some small form of guilt – that he had made these people waste their lives fantasising about what might have been if he hadn’t had to crash that ship.

So, he had agreed to an informal café interview from one of them. Only one – although he had proved to be one of the most enthusiastic and vocal Captain America historians out there, so it may as well have been twenty. Steve had expected the lesser known parts of his life and career to be questioned – what he was actually doing, any failings that the public may not have known – he was expecting to be asked to shed light on the real mysteries of his life. It turned out, however, that all anyone was ever really interested in was how the serum felt exactly when Steve went through the transformation. He had tried to answer it as best he could, but in all honestly Steve had experienced a lot of pain in the first twenty years of his life and when you get to be as old as he was, all of those pains bleed into one. He could recall the day his life was changed, but physically he could only recall the aching of his body that could have been from any one of his health scares.

“Do you have any other questions besides the serum?” Steve asked, tapping his fingers on the table, trying his best to seem polite.

“I’m sorry, was I asking too much?” the other man asked, tilting his head as he watched Steve. He hated that look. He was familiar with it – the look people gave when you had failed their expectations. He understood that he had become something of a legend in those 70 years where he had gone, and he knew that no matter what he did, he would never completely live up to that image people had built up. He couldn’t help but feel that for some people, they had rather he stayed gone.

He could tell that’s what was going through this scholar’s head. That Captain America should be able to answer any question – that his memory was meant to be superb, and this shouldn’t be difficult for him.

“It wasn’t the easiest time,” he said, trying to explain himself properly, “you know how the brain blots things out.”

“Well, okay then,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he went to scribble something down in his notebook. It looked like a massive scribble – like he’d just crossed something off. Steve felt in the pit of his stomach that he had failed some test here.

There was a pause, and the professor looked down at his notebook and gripped the pen in his hand stiffly. He looked up at Steve briefly, almost hesitantly. “I don’t mean to be crass or disrespectful at all,” he began in a way that made Steve’s stomach hit the floor, “but one thing that we as Captain America scholars have struggled with is what exactly was your relationship with Peggy Carter?”

Steve was a little lost in that moment. He was being stared at with expectancy, and he felt lost for words for a moment. “Well,” he began, uncertain. “She’s my friend, and I love her.”

“As a friend or…”

Steve wasn’t sure what it was that made him snap. Whether it was the entitled tone of voice, the way he leaned forward, or the fact he was having to explain his relationships at all. He had always been aware that he was meant to present himself the way people wanted to see him. He was aware people did not want the truth. And in this situation, Steve wanted to tell the truth – not to get it off his chest, but simply to bring the reaction he knew was going to come. And partially because he knew if he told the truth there was a large possibility no one else was going to hear it anyway – he had gathered that none of these scholars were really very interested in the truth.

He leaned forward on the table, staring into his eyes as he started talking. “Peggy was just a friend. Perhaps she could have been more, but there was someone else in my life.” He gave a short pause – enough to create a dramatic atmosphere, but not long enough to give the other man an opportunity to speak. “Bucky – well, Sergeant Barnes? He’s been my lover since the 1930s. Obviously not continuously, when he went MIA… but we’re back together now. I thought that maybe Peggy was someone I could share my life with in a way that I could never do with Bucky. But things changed, she got married…and now its just me and Bucky, so things worked out. Fate, I guess.” The look on his face was priceless, and Steve managed to lean back with satisfaction then, knowing he’d finally gotten the upper hand back. These people had assumed knowledge over his whole life, and he finally felt like he was able to tell them something they didn’t know.

He unfroze after a long second. “When you say, with Barnes, do you mean-”

“A romantic relationship, yeah. Boyfriend is the modern term you would use, but back then they were hesitant to use the same kinds of terms for gay couples as they used for straight ones. So, he was my lover. If he was anything at all – because generally if they referred to you at all it was as queers, degenerates or deviants.” Steve stared at him, maintaining eye contact, daring him to say something.

The historian’s mouth moved, open and then shut, several times – like a fish. Steve felt a flash of satisfaction, followed by a wave of shame. That was mean, what he’d done. He should apologise for being rude, but then –

“Are you _sure_?”

The guilt disappeared at once, and Steve’s mouth was already running.

 

\----------

 

Stretching out on the sofa, Bucky placed his feet in his sister’s lap, watching carefully for her reaction. She turned away from her book, looking at his feet first, and then at him in scandalised horror. “Buck! How many times have I told you not to do that? God, you drive me nuts!” She flung his feet back to his side of the sofa, and he laughed.

“Be quiet, you’ll wake the little ones,” he reminded her, smiling. It was Friday night, and their parents were out. He was left babysitting his sisters. He’d put the younger two down to sleep nearly half an hour before, but he let Rebecca stay up. Mostly to keep him company. “Steve would’ve let me rest my feet,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her. Rebecca put her book down on the side of the sofa. “Steve would let you do whatever you wanted,” she shot back. Bucky nodded, conceding the point. “Why isn’t Steve here, anyway?”

“Sick,” Bucky simply said.

“Again?”

“Yup.”

“Then why was he at school today?” Rebecca pressed. Bucky looked up at her, squinting.

“What are you implying, there?”

“That you’re lying about why Steve isn’t here.”

“And why would I do that?” Bucky replied with badly feigned casualness. Rebecca sighed, looking up the ceiling. “Because something’s up between you and him,” she said quietly. Bucky froze.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m asking you! It’s weird, not having him here. He’s like another brother, and it’s odd not having him over so much anymore. What is it, did you two have a fight or something?”

“Me and Steve don’t fight,” he said, almost automatically.

“I have seen you get into literal fist fights at least four separate times.”

“That was just play fighting, it’s never been serious! We always make up straight after,” he said, folding his hands over his chest. He felt sick, talking like this with his sister.

“So what is it then? Something serious?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Then why are you avoiding him?”

Silence hung in the air. Bucky wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her so badly, but the words stuck in his throat. He sat up, finally, leaning forward in his seat. “Promise you won’t tell mom and dad. Or your friends. Or anybody. Ever.”

“Bucky – ” she started.

“No, just listen to me, okay?” he said. She sat up straighter in response. “I’m uh…I’m…” his voice died in his throat. “Me and Steve are…” He turned to look at her. She watched him, worry in her eyes, and something else. Recognition. “Please don’t make me say it,” he whispered.

“I don’t understand, James.” She replied.

He swallowed, trying again. “Me and Steve are…going out, I guess. I said I liked him. He’s said he likes me. So.”

“Like…going _out_ out? Like boyfriend and girlfriend?”

“Kinda. I think so.” He looked down at the floor. He was gripping the seat so much his knuckles were white.

“Oh Bucky,” she said softly. He heard the sofa creak, and then her arms were around him and she was squeezing.

“I love him,” he told her, not knowing if he was saying it as an explanation or a defiance.

“I love you two,” she told him. “Why are you avoiding him? If you’re…going together.”

He thought about her question. “I don’t know what to do,” he said finally. “I really don’t know what I’m doing and I’m…frightened, I guess.”

“Of Steve?”

“Of what it means,” he looked down at his lap, “And what other people think.”

“Well _I_ don’t mind,” she said defiantly. “I think you and Steve are good together. He’s part of the family already, and he’s better than some of the girls that you’ve dated.”

“It’s not…it’s mom and dad that scare me,” he admitted, finally. She sat back a little bit, watching him carefully. “Mom and dad scare you?” she asked.

“Their reactions, I mean. What they’d think. Steve’s mom doesn’t mind but…Sarah’s always been more understanding than most. But our parents…I don’t know. And that scares me.” Rebecca nodded sympathetically. “You don’t have to tell them,” she said at last.

“I know, and still… Steve is such an important part of my life that I feel like they should know. That they deserve to know, maybe.” He hung his head. “I just _don’t know_ what I’m doing, Becca.” She put her arm around him, squeezing again. “It’s okay not to know,” she told him gently. “Things’ll get better, it will be alright, Buck.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> I'm really struggling with mental health issues at the minute, which is why this piece was so fragmented. I really can't think of things in the long-term, and I'm trying to get back into writing, so this is the best I could do at the minute.


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